


Letters to a castaway

by Lorquian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-10 04:02:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2010216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorquian/pseuds/Lorquian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Irene Adler's time with Sherlock Holmes can by told by the 12 letters she sent to him.<br/>For the Free Space of the SRPB</p>
            </blockquote>





	Letters to a castaway

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sort of companion piece to 'Withdrawal'. Poetry.

If there was something

Irene Adler left behind

It was this.

_To the King_

_In his ivory tower_

_Watching his Empire_

_Burn to the ground_

_Mr. Holmes:_

 

Death for us is like

the flowers on the counter

and its pathetic attempt

to bright up

a black and white life.

Death lingers in

everything we leave behind.

Death claims our clothes

perfume, memories and

what was left unsaid.

Dead men become

a crossed line in a notebook

small talk during dinner

and the kind words

no one expected.

Dead women become

shattered pasts and

condolences over tea,

hyacinths in late August.

But dead lovers vanish

into winter storms

and rage and regret

but never into oblivion.

Welcome to Death,

Sherlock Holmes.

There’s never peace here.

 

* * *

 

 

_My dear detective:_

The streets

of this antediluvian town

smell like Dark Ages

alchemy and you.

I dreamt of a time yet to come.

A time of delayed summers,

soft rains, you and me.

A time when we rested

under night skies

and unsaid promises.

We’ve burned down

The past to cast light on

a future we might not get.

When there’s nothing left

but ashes and memories,

all we have is confusion,

nameless encounters,

and a few borrowed kisses

we always promised to return.

 

* * *

  

_Mr. Holmes:_

 

“Tomorrow in the battle

think of me”,

but don’t let me weight

heavily in your soul.

Don’t drop the sword.

Don’t despair. Don’t die.

Tomorrow in the battle

think of who you were

and who we are now.

Tomorrow in the battle

think of home,

think of the past,

think of us. 

                               (Richard III, act V, scene VII)

 

* * *

 

 

_My dear detective:_

 

You told me

Love was too loud for you

and painted our agreement

with white lilies and solitude.

Yet neither of us left.

Did you believe

I was audacious enough

to tie a monster

with a daisy chain

and pretend I can

domesticate mythological beasts?

I don’t want to capture you.

May nothing tie me to you

so the pain of your downfall

can never reach me.

May nothing tie you to me

so my departure

won’t turn you into stone.

May nothing tie us,

even when we’re together.

 

* * *

 

 

_My dear detective:_

 

We’re becoming a dried flower

trapped between the pages

of a book no one reads.

Now we are

(if there’s even an ‘us’)

an overlooked portrait

in a family room.

The memories of us

come with knives

broken glass and cyanide pills.

Don’t let yourself be

another conversation

I had when everybody’s gone.

It’s not you and me

against the world.

It’s destiny crushing us to dust

It’s faith shredding us to bits.

                               ~~Don’t leave.~~

 

 

* * *

  

_Sherlock:_

There’s blood in your eyes

every time we meet again.

I’ve come to the realisation

that your conscience is a well

Where birds go to die.

And that your heart is a mined land

where friends and enemies

Are buried without a name.

I also know a needle has replaced

what you once called home.

A new body in your count

leaves an impression in our back

where poppies can’t grow

Is that also a fix?

I hope no more bullets

can reach you

I hope you sleep tonight,

not having to hear

the desperation of your enemies

I hope this letter

never gets to you.

 

* * *

 

 

_Mr. Holmes:_

 

Are there no bridges

to burn down?

Are there no wells

left to be poisoned?

Is the world wonderful

once again?

Are you finally

going home?

 

* * *

 

 

_Mr. Holmes:_

 

Captains of wrecked ships

forget about the sea

and become locked kings

in ivory towers, that are,

in fact, crack dens.

Nobody seeks treasures

among the debris of

your sunken ship.

There’s nothing there

except the man you used to be.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Sherlock:_

I did receive your letter

I don’t believe you’re clean

I do blame you

I don’t threaten you

why would I?

But there are secrets

no books tell you.

History can only repeat itself

a handful of times.         

Ulysses had to succumb

in this universe or the other.

The sirens live inside us

and he who listens to them

shall drown.

 

* * *

 

_Sherlock:_

 

It’s been God knows how long.

I know you don’t expect to see me

when you walk down the dusks

of the city you adore.

He’s getting married

and you’re yet to admit

you don’t like being alone.

He’s getting married

and you come back

to and empty house

in a hollow city

of this empty life.

I’m a thousand miles away from you.

And you’re alone.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Sherlock:_

 

Wasting your life away

os not how to ask for help.

Someone carved your features

into a new man, someone

neither of us knows of.

But there’s something

you need to be aware of.

I won’t bleed out for you.

I don’t bleed on the pages I write.

Because they’re nothing

but birds sentenced to

die at your hands.

My blood won’t reach your lips

and give you a chaste kiss

filled with joyous life.

You don’t bleed out

just to show sympathy.

I’m not your redemption token

Beatrice and Laura

died centuries ago,

Tickets to Hell are not one way, Dante,

but nothing about redemption is free. 

And                      

        I

           don’t

                        love

                                  you.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Sherlock:_

 

A night can’t last forever

and we don’t mourn

how few minutes it lasted

how few moments it left us.

Life is beautiful,

and it’s a wide world.

You know why I can’t stay there

until we ran out of words to say

and moments to share.

It’s always about goodbyes.

We,

the ones who leave

forget many things

and let them

vanish from our memories

just like the past

(people who remember get attached).

So all I leave you are maps.

One of them counts

the twenty steps from

the bed to your chair

or from my lips to your love,

a path we each walked alone.

Another one to paint

the perfect geography

of two bodies together

or the movement

of two constellations

caught in the middle of a dance.

(every sailor must know of stars)

The final one

shall always be empty,

because it’s my way

Back to London,

Back to home,

Back to you,

                                For the last time

                               Farewell, Mr. Holmes, and good night.


End file.
